It's okay, we're all sweating together

Date: 6/5/08
Location: Flower Shoppe
Bands: Happy Haus, Jose Bove and David Diarrhea
Cost: ???
Drnks: BYO
Things I missed to be there: Analog Punks with DJ Madrid at Rodan; Hitodama at Town Hall Pub; Marat 14K and Menowah at People Lounge; We Are Your Friends with Skyler and Hey Champ! at Jbar; Slide with Zebo, Itch13, SR-71, Intel and more at Darkroom
Reason for going: Happened upon it by chance

Leavitt between 21st Place (not 21st Street) and Cullerton is completely deserted. There are no condos, and the houses, makeshift duplexes and three-flats and six flats are beautiful. The lights are all off inside the houses. The signs on all the storefronts are hand-painted. It's idyllic. It is the way that Woody Allen, in the 70s, portrayed Brooklyn in the 50s. The flashing blue lights of lightning menacing above clashes with the flashing blue lights of surveilance cameras menacing much closer overhead, but it ain't no thang. The clouds have not let loose their fury, and the cops are a block away, their sirens tucked under the hustle and bustle of the CTA, and the sounds coming from a drunk drivers stereo.

The alley is full of cats. The porch party is listening to Hank Williams-era country when I turn the corner.

If I could have filmed the last half hour, with its own soundtrack, I would rotoscope it, not in the purist sense of the world, but digitally paint it, the way Richard Linklater animated Waking Life and A Scanner Darkly and it would be my Fantasia. The improvised jam at the end of the night at the Flower Shoppe was beautiful. Maybe I can call up the city, and they'll release some of those security tapes for me.

The jam played out the way I remember fucking, the last time I fucked on acid, bookended by awkward, building in and out of a comfortable rhythm and then completely losing myself, mind and body, nerves and senses completely detaching from one another, only to snap out of it, to realize what was happening, with a heightened sense of appreciation for it, and then to take it wholeheartedly, ust a little bit past its natural conclusion. I don't know if that sounds beautiful or gross, or like stupid drug rambling that only makes sense to me because I was there.

I's been a while since I've been jealous of a band. I've seen the negative side of touring, the negative side of traveling with friends and lovers, but when everyone was playing together I wished it was me that had traveled into town into this beautiful scene of people, and to have it punctuated by lightning as if the skies themselves were telling me not to take it for granted.

When I got there, the last band was already playing. Haus Meeting, from Duluth, MN. Their angle was maximum joy. A mix of dumpster ballad folk and a pajama jam dance party in the kitchen, the kind that happens over kool aid and vodka when you're out on your own, but not too far removed from your parents' house. Another band of kids that sounded like they could halfway play their instruments, and halfway couldn't, candy-coated in garish thrift store clothes that made them stand out but did't look like they were trying too hard. It worked for them. They worked well together, and they were too good for an under-promoted wednesday night show.

The song that took me over the edge had the singer free styling stream-of-consciousness semi-gibberish about Sammy Sosa playing for Chicago back when he gave a shit about professional sports, our clothes being our costumes and our faces being our masks, and everybody wearing underpants.

Usually when I can slip into a place without being asked for a cover, I'm happy about it. I hate having to tell the door person that I just can't afford it, especially when it's a lie and especially when it's the truth. If it says anything about the band, I'll have to add that this was the first time in a while that I actually sought after merch after the end of the show because I really wanted to give the band some money to help them get to the next town.

There aren't enough nights like these.